ADDRESS 


Maj.  JOSEPH  B.CUMMING, 

AT  THE 

UNVEILING  OF  CENOTAPH 

ON  GREENE  STREET. 


DECEMBER  31,  1873. 


Chronicle  Job  Print, 
Augusta,  Ga. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/addressbymajjoseOOcumm 


J < 


Eleven  years  ago  today,  at  this  hour,  a great  conflict  was 
raging  on  the  banks  of  Stone  River.  All  day  long  the  tide  of 
battle  rolled  through  the  cedar  forest.  The  result  was  in- 
decisive, and  night  found  both  armies  shattered  and  bleeding 
— the  living  and  the  dead  lying  down  together  on  the  frozen 
ground.  I can  see  now  the  faces  of  the  slain — the  blue  coated 
and  the  grey — in  the  pale  moonlight,  where  it  struggled 
through  the  rifts  of  the  forest.  Among  them  were  the  faces 
of  some  of  those  whose  names  are  inscribed  on  this  monument. 
Some  of  these  were  lifted  from  their  gory  beds  by  comrades’ 
hands,  and  now  rest  in  their  native  soil  commemorated  by 
other  monuments.  Others  still  sleep  where  they  first  sank  to 
rest;  their  graves  are  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  or  the 
plowshare  has  passed  over  them,  and  no  man  shall  know  their 
sepulchre  henceforth  forever  until  the  great  day. 

I speak  of  Murfreesboro,  because  this  happens  to  be  the 
anniversary  of  that  bloody  struggle.  It  was,  however,  but  a 
type.  What  happened  there  was  then  happening  everywhere 
in  this  war  stricken  land.  Everywhere  the  brave  were  falling. 
In  the  few  instances,  the  bleeding  clay  was  borne  lovingly  to 
weeping  kindred  and  thus  gathered  to  the  resting  places  of 
their  fathers  ; but  the  great  number  found  scanty  burial  where 
they  fell.  And  this,  too,  was  true  of  the  vast  multitude 
who  took  their  departure  less  stormy  but  not  less  heroic 
from  the  fever-smitten  hospitals. 

The  conflict  ceased,  and  while,  as  yet,  no  true  peace  came, 
at  least  the  sound  of  actual  warfare  rolled  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. Then  followed  that  which  was  hitherto  unknown  in 
the  annals  of  time — a conquered  people  busied  itself  to  erect 
monuments  which  should  perpetuate  the  memory  of  its  con- 
quest. Strange  spectacle!  and  yet  not  strange*.  We  were 
conquered,  but  our  cause  was  just.  We  had  fallen,  but  were 
not  dishonored.  Our  efforts  had  failed,  but  those  efforts 
had  made  the  world  ring  with  our  praises.  We  had  the 
irreparable  and  the  irrecoverable  to  lament;  to  blush  for  noth- 
ing. And  we  might  fitly  rear  monuments  with  proud  front, 
albeit  covered  with  the  symbols  of  mourning. 

Had  there  been,  however,  only  this  feeling  of  mournful 
pride,  it  alone  would  not  have  expressed  itself  in  the  erection 
of  monuments.  But  it  soon  became  the  pious  care  of  our 
people  after  the  war  to  preserve  the  names  of  our  martyrs, 

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and  to  inscribe  on  the  monuments  erected  to  their  memory 
simple  legends  protesting  to  earth  and  Heaven  the  purity  of 
their  motives.  Few  were  the  offerings  they  could  make  at 
first  out  of  their  poverty,  and  the  work  has  been  slow.  But 
it  was  a sacred  enterprise,  not  to  pass  away  with  the  freshness 
of  grief,  but  to  become  deeper  rooted  with  time  and  to  expand 
with  returning  prosperity.  Moreover,  our  enemies,  exercising 
the  right  of  conquerors,  ungenerously — I would  say,  but  I 
pause  with  the  words  unspoken  when  I remember  that  they 
did  it  for  their  dead — our  enemies  were  studding  our  own 
land — ours  if  not  to  control,  at  least  to  live  and  to  die  in — 
with  monuments  to  their  soldiers,  imposing  their  version  of 
the  great  struggle  upon  our  children  and  our  children's  chil- 
dren. Aud  thus  in  some  of  the  lovliest  places  of  the  land,  the 
child  receiving  his  first  impressions,  the  wayfarer,  the  un- 
learned, who  reads  nothing  except  what  he  finds  in  his  path- 
way, are  confronted  by  monuments,  on  which,  in  a perverted 
vocabulary,  a just  cause  is  styled  rebellion,  and  true  men  are 
branded  traitors.  Then,  what  had  been  a sentiment  for  the 
dead  became  also  a high  duty  to  the  living  and  the  unborn  ; and 
what  had  been  intended  only  as  a memorial  of  heroism  became 
also  a protest  against  calumny.  And  so,  devoted  men  and 
women  working  in  tender  love  for  the  dead  and  with  unwaver- 
ing conviction  that  they  were  right,  this  monument,  planted 
in  love,  watered  by  the  tears  of  mothers,  wives,  daughters, 
sisters,  now  rises  under  these  trees  to  perpetuate,  as  far  as 
imperishable  marble  can  make  them  perpetual,  the  names  of 
the  soldier  dead  of  Richmond  County,  and  to  proclaim  while 
it  lasts,  that  their’s  was  a just  cause,  and  their’s  a sweet  and 
honorable  departure. 

In  what  language  does  this  monument  make  these  weighty 
utterances?  Read!  “These  men  died  in  defense  of  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  Declaration  of  Independence".  And  is  this  not 
true?  These  men  fought  for  the  right  of  self  government  and 
against  centralization.  These  men  fought  for  the  right  of 
communities,  empires  in  extent,  organized  and  self  sustaining, 
to  regulate  their  own  affairs,  and  against  the  interference  of 
a people  alien  in  sentiment  and  interest.  These  men  shed 
their  blood  for  the  independence  of  a country  four  times  more 
populous,  and  many  times  larger  than  the  original  United 
States.  “These  men  died  in  defense  of  the  principles  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.”  \\  hat  did  the  fathers  more 
or  other  than  this?  And  were  these  men  rebels  and  their 
cause  treason?  If  so,  Washington  was  a traitor,  and  Benedict 
Arnold  truly  loyal. 


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And  if  this  monument  speaks  thus  fitly  of  the  cause  in 
which  these  men  suffered,  what  does  it  say  of  their  discharge 
from  service?  Read  again.  “Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria 
mori”.  How  simple  and  how  old!  Adopted  by  all  people 
until  it  belongs  to  no  one  alone — from  the  time  that  the  poet 
first  traced  it  on  his  tablet  of  wax,  the  immortal  phrase, 
chiseled  upon  aspiring  monuments,  engraved  upon  minister 
pavements  where  great  empires  collect  the  ashes  of  their 
heroes,  lettered  upon  the  unpretending  slab  or  cross  beneath 
the  cedar,  the  myrtle  and  the  pine,  rudely  carved  by  the  hands 
of  comrades  on  the  rough  head-boards  of  the  battle-field — 
the  immortal  phrase  has  proclaimed  to  every  age  and  in  all 
climes  that  it  is  sweet  and  honorable  to  die  for  one’s  country. 
And  is  it  less  effective  because  so  old?  Nay,  it  is  so  old 
because  so  effective.  The  human  heart,  which  changes  not, 
when  it  seeks  to  convey  one  of  its  universal  immutable  sen- 
timents, borrows  the  same  vehicle  from  age  to  age.  Aud  do 
hearts  respond  the  less  as  time  goes  on?  As  soon  bid  the 
heart  to  beat  no  quicker  henceforth  forever  to  the  old  story 
of  love;  for  it  was  spoken  in  simplest  language  in  the  bowers 
of  Eden,  and  was  whispered  to-day,  unchanged,  in  the  ear  of 
beauty.  Old,  old,  phrase,  denied  to  an  Emperor,  falling  in 
the  midst  of  brilliant  battalions  with  insigna  of  orders — for 
he  pursued  ambition  and  conquest — it  is  rightfully  due  to  the 
poor  Confederate  soldier,  buried,  it  may  be,  in  his  thin  rags 
by  hostile  hands  on  a lost  battle-field,  for  he  indeed  died  for 
his  country ; and  so  dying  found  sweet  and  honorable  discharge 
— dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria  mori. 

The  task  of  love  is  accomplished.  The  Cenotaph  has 
risen.  The  statement  of  the  cause  is  made.  The  Roll  of  Honor 
is  inscribed.  A time-honored  formula,  dedicated  to  the  fallen 
brave,  is  chiseled  upon  it.  The  work  is  done.  We  shall  pass 
away;  it  will  continue.  We  commit  it  to  the  judgment  of 
future  generations,  in  the  firm  faith  that  they  will  commend 
our  purpose  and  approve  its  execution. 

So  much  for  this  monument  and  this,  visible  world.  But 
there  is  over  us  and  around  us  a world  to  us  invisible,  in- 
habited by  the  great  army  of  those  gone  before.  How  thin 
the  veil  depending  between  these  two  worlds  ; how  transparent 
to  the  ecstatic  soul  I Who  shall  forbid  that  I shall  attempt 
to  penetrate  it?  Who  shall  say  I am  too  bold  if,  lifting  up 
my  eyes,  I seem  to  see  the  ranks  of  the  departed  marshalled 
in  the  air,  looking  down  on  this  scene?  Who  should  forbid 
that  I recognize  in  those  ranks  of  spiritual  bodies — so  like  the 
natural,  but  more  glorious — the  form  of  those  who  stood  and 


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fell  in  the  ranks  of  battle?  Who  shall  say  that  but  a shadow 
flits  across  my  brain  when  I seem  to  see  along  those  shadow’ty 
lines  the  waving  of  the  conquered  banner?  Who  shall  deny 
that  I seem  to  see  them  in  their  places  rest,  attentive  to  this 
pageant,  knowing  the  while  that  all  we  can  do  is  very  little 
for  those  who  gave  their  all  for  us,  yet  pleased  that  what  we 
can  we  do.  And  if  I may  not  see  these  marshalled  hosts ; if 
these  be  but  unsubstantial  shadows,  no  man  may  deny  that 
surely  this  is  true:  Above  and  beyond  where  these  banners 

seem  to  float,  and  these  hosts  seem  to  stand,  Himself,  the  God 
of  Hosts,  looks  down  and  orders  all;  and  while  for  his  own 
purpose  decreeing  defeat  where  we  had  hoped  for  victory, 
able,  in  His  own  way,  to  change  the  former  into  the  latter,  and 
in  his  own  good  time  to  permit  the  same  people  to  place  bv 
the  side  of  their  monuments  of  mourning  the  trophies  of 
triumph. 


